


Bloodstream

by tenderwrites



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Fluff, M/M, References to Depression, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderwrites/pseuds/tenderwrites
Summary: inanition/ˌɪnəˈnɪʃən/= mental, social, or spiritual weakness or lassitude= feeling of emptiness and/or destitution





	Bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic based on the song Bloodstream by the Chainsmokers, which is a pretty sad song, but there are some elements of support from other people. Unfortunately, I'm slowly drifting away from Eddsworld, in the aftermath of all that has happened in the fandom. However, I'll always remember it as a source of inspiration for my art and writing and I'll continue to write about it. Whatever you feel about the state of Eddsworld now, you can comment down below and let's try and take some comfort in the fact that Matt is trying his best to keep it real. 
> 
> Stay strong, everyone!

“...How long have you been here?” A raspy but sharp voice cut through the buzz of the bar and Tom pretended not to notice, downing his shot of tequila with a violent swig and suppressing the burp rising from his throat. The owner of the voice was the bar owner and tender, who maintained quite a decent business of the rickety place. His name was Jerry, as he went by his nametag, and the Brit thought it to be an obnoxious name. 

“It’s not any of your business, is it?” Tom complained, his vision swimming and the clean-shaven face of Jerry wobbling from side to side. He switched over to his flask of Smirnoff and gulped half of it in protest, earning a concerned stare from the owner. Grunting, Tom turned away from the table and looked out at his surroundings. There were a few booths filled with patrons and a slightly elevated dance floor with lights that seemed a little too bright for Tom’s liking. In his daze of liquor-induced immobility, he could just make out the exit and entrance of the bar which strangers filtered in and out of, and figured that it would take at least a few minutes for him to be pulled through that door.

He wasn’t a newbie at the bar; Tom had frequented the place in his pursuit of escaping from the world and Jerry already knew him by name and nationality. More than often, the neon lights and fancy cocktails would seduce him to the bar for another nightly round of drinks accompanied his old friend, self-doubt. By this point, Tom was convinced that his liver was probably disintegrating day by day. In retrospect, it was disgusting and the drinks burned his throat with a rapid ferocity, but all of it meant nothing to him. After all, what was spending time alone if not joined by a few bottles of alcohol?

The bar entrance slammed open with a blinding force and a red-clothed figure stormed in thereafter, withholding a murderous glint in his silver eyes and scaring half the patrons to death. A group of friends heading out into the night steered clear of his path, fearing for their limbs and closely knitted families. Instead of delivering intimidation, Tom merely rolled his eyes at the supposed serial killer and turned his back to face Jerry, who had stopped wiping a wineglass to stare at the new patron.

“Give me another bottle of Smirnoff, Jerry.” The furious individual strode past the dance floor with the colourful strobes and all the other booths containing laughing companions, only stopping beside Tom and ignoring all other irrelevant people.

“The hell he will. You’re coming home right now, smartass.” Tom scoffed dismissively at that, but spared no effort to stop Tord from snatching up the front of his shirt and dragging him through the bar. Jerry stared after the two of them sympathetically, lowering his eyes to look at a wad of bills left behind on the bar counter. This was a common sight in his bar, regrettably, and everytime Tom had wasted himself on the luxury of alcohol, his foreign friend would tear through the door and the crowd to come pick him up. Was he concerned or angry at the Brit? No one truly knew, but the same person would kick down the door every time.

Jerry was the least bit concerned about the old door.

\---

Tom stared into the abyss that was the Dirdum street and wished he was back at Jerry’s bar, without a deranged Norwegian to arrive and spoil his midnight plans as if his only purpose in life was to slow down the process of damage to the Brit’s liver. Tom’s wrist burned as if a flame was being applied to it. He tried wrenching it away from the hand digging into his flesh, but all that did was to aggravate the pain further. 

“Tord.” No response.

“Tord! Do you mind? I can walk on my own, you know.” At this, the Norwegian threw down Tom’s wrist, releasing it from his vice-like grip and slowing down to stand in front of a hardware store. The store was closed and there was a poster at one of its big windows showcasing the latest arrivals, but the most important thing was that there was virtually no one around to witness this debacle taking place. If the store owner had been present, he or she would have glanced distastefully at the both of them, ordering them to scram.

“Fine. Try walking 10 steps without me.” With a burst of adrenaline, Tom stumbled forward and promptly fell onto his face. There was a sour feeling in his throat and he doubled over, releasing the vomit into the drain below the pavement.

“Tch. You’re a mess, asshole.” Despite the venom in Tord’s voice, he stopped to stand behind Tom and bent down to hold his hair up, all while the Brit threw up the remainder of his dinner. Tom couldn’t remember who had cooked dinner that night. He’d hoped it was Edd, since he was the one who had any knowledge of how to prepare a meal. Sure, the artist would groan at the prospect of babysitting his housemates, but he had their best interests at heart, always.

“...Speak for yourself.” Tom breathed out and let loose the last of the vomit, clearing his throat and sitting down by the side of the pavement. The familiar pit at the bottom of his stomach returned and he let out a long sigh, closing his eyes to wish away the wave of despair that washed over him like an uncontrollable disease.

“It’s fucking 59 degrees out. Why did you go out without another layer of clothing?”

“Don’t care.” Tord sneered at that, flicking at the side of Tom’s disheveled head. Reaching inside of his jeans’ pockets, he retrieved a new pack of cigarettes and popped open the packaging, flinging it aside. The lighter cast a pale yellow pallor over the empty road and pavement and provided some temporary warmth between the two of them.

“I thought you smoked cigars.” 

“Fuck off. I smoke these when I’m angry.”

“Why are you angry then?” Tord exhaled and blew out a puff of smoke, relief clouding his features. Silence passed between the two of them, the sounds of crickets filling the background. Nearby, a glass bottle drove itself into the pavement and smashed to smithereens, with a few obscenities accompanying the lewd noise.

“...You are so foolish sometimes, you know that? What the hell are you gonna do without me?” Tord chuckled sadly, shuffling closer to Tom in lieu of the temperature. 

“I can survive just fine on my own, thanks.”

“No, you can’t.” Huffing in indignation, Tom remained silent, turning his back away from the Norwegian who called himself his saviour. What did that bastard know anyway? All he knew what to do was to be a constant source of irritation and frustration for him. More than often, Tord would be an itch at Tom’s side, unrelenting and unwilling to stop being such a prick in his face. He felt like his high school self, so hot-blooded and energetic, being that person who had actual hopes for the world.

Tom shivered. It was getting colder out by the minute, as the night developed. Maybe it was time to suck up Tord’s comments and head home to collapse into bed, resting his aching limbs and heavy mind. As if by cue, a warm article of clothing was thrust into his lap, beckoning him to cover up his skin.

“...What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just wear it and let’s go home, dumbass.” Tord threw the butt of his cigarette onto the road and stamped the small flame out, standing up without bothering to wait for the Brit. Tom stared at the red pullover in his arms and automatically leaned into its warmth. The Norwegian could reek of cherrywood cigars and freshly washed clothing, but at least he could bring a smile to Tom’s face every once in a while.

Well, that was an understatement.

He tugged on Tord’s pullover and sprinted after him, his heart soaring and beating too fast for his own liking.

\---

From afar, the house shared by 4 roommates was dark and the weeds growing in the front yard made the building appear menacing and intimidating at night, but it was home to the three of them, at least, and it was slowly becoming home to the last of them.

Tord stumbled into the threshold of his home, slender fingers laced into his own lightly scarred ones and his heart belonging to someone else. The rest of his friends had gone to bed, all the lights turned off except for the kitchen’s. He kicked his shoes off and cradled Tom’s face in his hands, kissing him in the glow of the ceiling light and pressing him into the nearest wall.

“Tell me you love me.” Tord breathed, probing Tom to say the three words he had always desired.

“I’ve loved you every time you tried to prevent me from ruining my life.” Tom pulls him in for another kiss despite his dry throat, feeling his knees grow weak at the sight of such a dashing man kissing him. He knows that the affection in Tord’s eyes and his gaping mouth means only one thing:  _ I love you too. _

 

 


End file.
